"Alright, listen, we have to go get back to Lyra. Can we please not maim anyone on our way back?" you ask.

"NOOOO PRAWMISES!" screams Lyler, sitting in the grocery cart once more.

Realizing that's the best answer you're going to get, you walk down the remainder of the dairy aisle, taking notice of a surprising face. To your surprise, Queen Chrysalis herself is before you, in the flesh. To your surprise, she doesn't seem to want to murder or corrupt anything. Not for now, anyway. Surprisingly. Her shopping cart is entirely filled with tubs of mozzarella cheese balls suspended in oil. You walk slowly past her as she studies a small electronic device in her hand.

"I swear I have that text message for the cheese sale somewhere," she mutters to herself.

You walk by, trying not to cause a scene. To your surprise, even Lyler is on her best behavior.

That is, until you turn the corner.

"SHE HAS MY VOICE!"

"Lyler, shut the fuck up. Everyone gets it. This story is circlejerky enough as it is."

"Are you breaking the fourth wall again, Anon?" Lyra asks, pushing her cart down the aisle to you. "How many times have I told you that you need to cut that shit out?"

"Lyler started it," you grumble.

"WE DIDN'T STAAARRT THE FIIIREEEEE."

"Whatever. Sis, I have a question for you," Lyra says. "I got two of your favorite cereals which do you want. Ghosteos or Honey Drops."

"GHOSTIES!" Lyler yells in pure glee, rocking back and forth in the cart. "CAN I HOLD THE BOX?!"

Lyra hands the cereal box to her, and then turns to place the other option back on the shelf.

"ANERN!"

You look down to the horse in your shopping cart in exasperation as she holds the box up to you.

"GUESS WHAT?!"

"What?" you ask, fearing the answer.

Suddenly, Lyler swings the box directly at your face. Without even a second to move, the cardboard directly collides with your nose, and you feel a pop just below your eye socket, like popping a grape. A trickle of blood trickles down your nose steadily.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR?!" you shout, turning the attention of the grocery store customers. Oh. Wait. Sorry. Grocery store GUESTS. Fuck man. When you work retail for 2-3 years, they just pour some of this shit into you. But you fucking tell me, if someone fucking takes a shit in the baby food aisle at 11PM, when you were supposed to get off at 10:30PM, and you're forced to clean that shit up when you have to go to school for a final the next day, I think they lose the right to be called a guest. That's just me.

... oh right. I had a joke.

Lyler looks up to you proudly.

"GHOSTFACERS!" she yells.

You turn on the spot and begin to walk. Nope. Fuck this. Fuck this shit. Fuck ALLL of this. You'd rather walk right back to dairy and do your best to see what happens when you decide to talk to the black and white human that's hiding behind the yogurt, singing some weird song.

"Anon, where do you think you're going?" Lyra calls back to you.

Then you remember that you're kinda forced to do this.

"Counting the number of tiles in the aisle," you sigh under your breath.

"THERE'S 87. I COUNTED," Lyler yells.

"Of course you'd know, Lyler," you growl at her.

"Wow, Anon. Rude. There are mean jokes, but that's a whole new low. You should feel bad for even thinking of that joke."

Flutterpriest sighs and opens a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label.

"I remember when I used to write good stories."

"Can we please, just... move on? What do we need to get next?" you ask.

Lyra moves her glance over to the next aisle.

"Oh, easy. Next we need to go get some pasta."

"SPAGHETTI!" Lyra yells. "HOOVES ARE SWEATY. KNEES WEAK."

"Yeah, we get it," you say, leaning on the cart in resignation. "Mom's Spaghetti. Har. Har Har."

Lyler turns and looks at you blankly. Lyra stares at you shaking her head.

"My spaghetti," Lyra says. "Lyra's Spaghetti. Do you want to turn this into an edge-fest?"

"LYRAS SPAGHEEETTTIII!" Lyler screams joyfully, as if snapping out of a trance.

You feel as if some important, but unnecessary plot point was just completely glazed over, but you shake your head. Turning your cart around, you move along to the next aisle.